


An Honest Delirium

by TheLifeOfEmm



Series: Some Compelling Reason [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Javert whump, M/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 19:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18482869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: Where had he gone wrong? That was what Javert wanted to know.When Javert is in danger, Valjean finds him. Always.





	An Honest Delirium

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Irony in Irons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18482656) by [TheLifeOfEmm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm). 



> I drew one bit of character whump, and then that spiraled into several derivative works when Akatonbo proposed the need for Valjean to come and fix Javert up; here, then, is a little something to that end. 
> 
> Follow the "Inspired by" to see the artwork and get a link to Akatonbo's fic, which despite us having written our pieces entirely independently somehow still reads like a remix... I am increasingly certain we share half a brain where Valvert is concerned. ;)

Where had he gone wrong?

That was what Javert wanted to know. He was ninety-six hours into this investigation; ninety-six hours in, and sixty hours into his captivity, which came after the perpetrators got the drop on him and the officer he was partnered with out back of a seedy pub. The Inspector was still uncertain what had become of Duvall. One of the thugs struck him over the head, and when Javert came to, it was in the same stone cellar where he had been imprisoned ever since. Still, it was a murder they were investigating—it did not take a Police Inspector to make an educated guess how his partner had fared.

Javert shifted his weight, wincing as sores on his bare feet rubbed against the gritty flagstones. Above him, the chains shackling his wrists to the wall clanked at the movement. His greatcoat was missing, and his shirt had been stripped from him not much longer after waking. For what purpose soon had been made apparent; blood still trickled sluggishly down his arms and chest from the knife wounds marring his skin. His captors wanted information, and Javert was not about to give it without a fight.

Now, however, the Inspector was unsure how much fight he had left in him. He was too old to be doing this, that was what Valjean kept saying, and perhaps the man was right—his face felt about as grey as his hair, and when his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks the room spun and distorted. Hunger had faded from Javert’s thoughts entirely; his stomach joined the rest of his body in becoming one endless, throbbing ache.

He was so tired. A bone-deep exhaustion had settled in his limbs, but Javert could not rest. To rest would mean letting his guard down, and that he would not tolerate. Moreover, the thought of sagging enough to put weight on his wrists filled him with a quiet sort of dread. They were already red and chafed from the shackles. If he slept, they might cut enough to bleed.

Footsteps in the hall caused Javert to raise his head wearily. Had his captors returned to torture him further, or did they mean to put a permanent end to this charade?

The door opened, and then Javert thought he must be hallucinating, for the figure entering was neither Friloux nor Brassard nor Aguillard nor any other member of the gang he recognized. Instead, the figure looked rather like Jean Valjean, though that of course was preposterous -

Javert’s thoughts ground to a halt as Valjean saw him and stopped. “Javert?” he asked, his eyes wide and even a little frightened. But that was preposterous, too, because Valjean was not afraid of anything except perhaps Javert himself, and the Inspector in chains was hardly any threat.

“Valjean.” Javert paused at the rasp of his own voice; he was struck by a sudden overwhelming need for a glass of water. “How are you here?” He was still half-convinced he was hallucinating; Javert could not recall Valjean’s hair ever looking so soft before.

“I have been searching for you.” Springing back into motion, Valjean took long strides across the flagstones, peeling off his overcoat in a way which suggested he meant business. “You have been _missing_ —I was so _worried_ —and to find you like this...!”

He trailed off, digging through his pockets for something, but Javert frowned. Now that Valjean stood closer, it was more apparent how the lines around his mouth had deepened, and there was a pallor to his usually serene face that the Inspector did not care for.

“It is nothing,” he said, though he was betrayed by his body as another wave of dizziness swept over him. “Truly,” he added at Valjean’s disbelieving look. Then Javert was holding back a hiss as Valjean reached over his head to take gentle hold of his wrist. There was the clicking of metal against metal, and Javert glanced up.

“That is not a key,” he said flatly.

“No,” Valjean agreed with a little more of his usual good humor as he continued to work the lockpick intently. “Shall I leave you here while I go search the compound for one?”

The first of the manacles popped open, and Javert’s arm fell limply to his side, his shoulder making a sound like the creaking of old wood in the process.

“Ah,” said Javert. “I would rather you did not.” Then he thought of another question, and Javert frowned again. “How did you find me? And how did you get in unnoticed? The gang -”

“- is in custody by now, I presume,” Valjean interjected, turning his attention to the Inspector’s other wrist. He was silent for a moment, a thoughtful turn to his mouth. “When you did not come home, I grew concerned. In the end, I went to the station -”

“You did _what?_ ” Javert demanded.

“- and it was well that I did so,” Valjean finished doggedly. “Your partner, Duvall, feared you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Duvall is alive?” Momentarily distracted by this revelation, Javert shook his head and immediately regretted it as his vision went spotty.

Nodding, Valjean continued the narrative. “He is alive, and upstairs for that matter. I ran into him at the station house, and when I gave my name he went white as if he’d seen a ghost. Someone apparently let slip that you have been staying with a ‘Monsieur Fauchelevent’—I suppose it made an impression.”

A dull pang of guilt joined hunger in Javert’s stomach. He had not intended to mix Valjean up in his mess; it did not matter that this last was spoken with the same hint of humor. He should have been more careful.

The lockpick did its work, and the second set of manacles clicked open in Valjean’s practiced fingers. Without the chains to hold him upright, Javert’s knees gave out. He fell forward, only for Valjean to catch him before he could hit the ground. Then they were face to face, Valjean’s features pinched with a concern Javert could not fathom. It made the man’s nose crinkle in a way which really should not have been endearing, and yet Javert found himself charmed by it even so.

“Here,” Valjean murmured, helping him sit back against the wall. “You need these seen to.” He gestured at the injuries which, Javert thought indignantly, were all superficial enough for the Inspector to tend to himself. He began to tell Valjean as much, but the man hushed him. “What happened to your arm?” Valjean asked instead, his fingers brushing against a strip of Javert’s ill-fated shirt where it was wrapped around his forearm in a bloody, fraying tie.

Javert snorted. “One of them got a little carried away with the knife work,” he replied. “Had to bandage it before I could pass out on them.”

This response did not seem to placate Valjean any, and Javert was given no choice but to sit still as the man gently unwound the dirtied lint to expose the jagged gouge beneath. Javert almost did not hear Valjean’s sharp intake of breath at the sight; he might have drifted to sleep entirely, if not for the mesmerizing sensation of Valjean’s hands caressing him as tenderly as a lover would.

Without entirely realizing he had done so, the Inspector raised his free hand to card through Valjean’s snow white hair. It seemed so soft... At his touch, Valjean froze in what he was doing, holding very still as Javert cupped the side of his face. Valjean’s hair was indeed as soft as it looked, and Javert hummed a sigh.

Valjean was still so close, bent over him in his ministrations, his mouth open just slightly in surprise, and Javert thought to himself that he might like very much to kiss that mouth. It was not the first time such a thought had occurred, yet always before, there had been some compelling reason not to act on it. Now, Javert did not have the wherewithal to think of one.

Valjean still did not move as Javert leaned closer, though he did gasp against his mouth when their lips touched. Again, Javert sighed with satisfaction. That was better, he thought. Kissing was... strange, but also strangely pleasant. He thought he liked it. In order to test that theory, Javert pushed himself up enough to kiss Valjean a second time, his fingers tightening slightly in the man’s curls and his teeth catching the edge of Valjean’s lower lip.

This time, Valjean’s mouth moved against his, and despite Javert’s current state, he was reasonably confident a high-pitched whine had not come from his own throat. Then Valjean pulled away, a pink flush spreading over his cheeks.

“Ah,” he said, sounding flustered. “Forgive me, Javert, you are feverish.” He pressed the back of his hand to Javert’s forehead. “I should not take advantage.”

Javert meant to protest—He was hardly an invalid, and didn’t Valjean know he had wanted to kiss him for months now?—but then Valjean picked him up off the floor, strong arms unexpectedly careful as they supported him, and the press of their bodies together was sufficiently distracting for the Inspector to lose track of what he had wanted to say.

The flush had not left Valjean’s face. “Let us get you into some better light,” he said, speaking quickly as though he meant to distract himself as much as Javert. “I will be more able to tend to your injuries that way. And Duvall will want to know you shall recover.”

Javert’s brow furrowed. He could not kiss Valjean with Duvall around. He intended to say as much, too, but Valjean was very warm, and Javert was very tired, and almost in spite of himself the Inspector found he relaxed enough to doze off.

When he woke, there would be reports to write and charges to press. Undoubtedly, Chabouillet would have a few strong words for him about recklessness. But in the meantime, Valjean was cradling him in his arms, and Javert could be content with that.


End file.
